


The Florence Nightingale Effect

by wtfrenchtoast



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Basically 3700 words of ‘Steve no’, Emergency room, Fluff, Hospital, M/M, Modern AU, Sort Of, Steve still flings himself into the jaws of death, but at least Bucky gets paid to take care of him, nurse!bucky, skinny art student steve, some canon elements, then big Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrenchtoast/pseuds/wtfrenchtoast
Summary: “I know what hypothermia is,” Steve bristled as he pulled the electric blanket tighter around his slight shoulders.“Yes. Yes, you do. You know what it is because you went out for a six-hour stroll through Midtown, on the coldest night of the year, without a coat on. Without. A. Coat.” Bucky really, really wanted the satisfaction of letting him sit there and try to decide which part of this decision was actually the dumbest.“I didn’t start out without a coat,” Steve argued.“What, so you were out and about and thought that the negative-twenty-five wind chill was balmy enough for short sleeves? The mayor was crying wolf when he declared a State of Emergency for the whole damn city?”****************Or, the Nurse!Bucky/reckless art student!Steve AU where at least Bucky gets paid to take care of Steve's self-sacrificing ass.





	The Florence Nightingale Effect

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a furious four-day bender because I knew if I didn't get it posted now it would never happen. Enjoy!

“Barnes! You got that head contusion in Triage 3?”

Bucky’s head snapped up from where it dangled dangerously close to the countertop beneath him. His eyes flew wide, comically round, as he fumbled with the pen he was death-gripping.

“Yeah!” Bucky nearly shouted, startling even himself. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, Tim. I’ll be down there in a minute.”

The other RN raised one bushy eyebrow. “Two more hours, man.” 

As if on cue, Bucky yawned. “I’m fine,” he insisted. 

“Mm-hmm. Hey, I think you were drooling a little.” The other nurse scratched at the corner of his own mouth and Bucky wiped sloppily at his own, sheepish. He followed Tim out of the nurses’ station, luckily without stumbling over his own feet. 

“Grab a cup of coffee, my friend,” Tim said with a brotherly slap on the shoulder. “We got three drunks in room 8, a nail gun incident in 5, and all the dumbasses from that bar fight are still trickling in. Oh, yeah, that head contusion is still waiting too. Dealer’s choice.” Tim held up an array of patient intake forms like a hand of poker. 

Bucky groaned. Fuck Saturday nights. “Surprise me,” he sighed as he held out his hand. Tim dropped one of the clipboards into his outstretched fingers and cackled as he strolled away. 

Bucky glanced at the patient information. “Head contusion it is,” he announced blandly to no one in particular as he ran one tired hand through his rumpled hair. 

***

“I’m fine.” 

It’s the first thing that Bucky’s greeted with when he pulled aside the curtain that shielded his patient from the chaos of the ED. “Hey there, Mr...Rogers? I’m Bucky, I’m one of the nurses.”

The figure cut a small silhouette against the antiseptic white of the hospital bedsheet, made even more diminutive by the way he wrapped his arms protectively around himself. “Hi. I’m fine, just so you know. I don’t need to be here. Can I leave?” Despite his brisk words, his voice is soft. Deeper than Bucky would have expected, given the kid’s slight frame. 

Bucky glanced through the rest of the hastily-scrawled notes from the triage nurse, ignoring his patient’s remarks for the moment. “Says here that you took a pretty good hit to the face and your head broke the fall.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “What’d you land on?”

Rogers paused for a moment before answering, “The pavement.” 

Bucky let that hang there. “Okay. The notes from the EMT’s say that you were unconscious when they arrived and you almost fell off the gurney when they tried to help you sit down.” He paged through the rest of the notes before letting the papers flop onto the clipboard. “That doesn’t sound fine to me.”

“That was like, an hour ago.”

“Mmhmm. So, if I asked you to walk a straight line, arms at your side, no looking down, all the way to that water fountain,” he gestured vaguely across the linoleum, “you’d make me eat my words, right? No wobbling, nothing?”

His patient was curiously quiet. 

“Right,” Bucky continued dryly, rummaging in his pocket for his penlight. “Look here, please.” He placed a hand gently under the kid’s chin and tilted his face upward. When Bucky aimed the tiny beam directly into one of his eyes, he nearly startled at the sheer size of the pupil. Coupled with the sizable gash oozing blood into his floppy blond hair, this guy wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He sighed. Bucky had a feeling he would not agree with his professional assessment. 

“Mr. Rogers,” he began. 

“It’s Steve. Can I go now?” The thin rim of blue around his alarmingly dilated pupils was framed by the longest lashes Bucky’d ever seen, guy or girl. 

It was then that Bucky realized he was still cupping Steve’s face gently, though the penlight was long gone. Abruptly he dropped his hand and cleared his throat. Jesus, he really needed to get some sleep. “Uh, Steve. Look. I’m going to recommend that you be kept overnight for observation. A concussion is a legitimate head injury-”

“What?” Steve’s reaction reminded Bucky of a chicken that he’d startled on his uncle’s dairy farm, back when he spent a summer there in middle school. Same high-pitched, affronted squawk. Huh. 

“One of the attending docs is gonna stop by and check you out, too, and probably send you for a CAT scan to be sure. I know it might seem excessive, but it’s really important that any head trauma is taken very seriously.”

“It’s just a bump. I fall all the time. Trust me, it’s nothing that I haven’t done before,” Steve pleaded, almost bitterly. 

“All the more reason it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Bucky tucked the clipboard under his arm. More gently, he asked, “Is there someone we can call for you? Someone who’d want to know if you were here?” 

Steve’s eyes dropped. “No, nobody,” he answered quietly. “Listen, I...I don’t have insurance, okay? I can’t pay for a CAT scan. I can’t even pay for the huge-ass Band-Aid that’s holding the back of my scalp together right now.”

The shame in his voice struck something in Bucky, yanking him from his sleep-deprived fog. He regarded the kid for a moment. Skinny, all elbows and knees, with lanky blonde hair that was about three months beyond hipster-long. Strong nose, a little too big for his otherwise delicate features. His chart said he was twenty but Bucky knew ninth-graders who could buy beer before this guy could pass for his age. And here he was, worrying about how he’d pay, when lots of people who  _ could _ pay would take what they could get now and ignore the bills when they arrived in the mail.  

“I can understand that,” he said carefully. “But the important thing right now is to make sure you’re okay. The other stuff can be figured out later, once you’re cleared.” He very pointedly stared into Steve’s eyes the entire time he spoke, willing his message into his patient’s (apparently pretty thick) skull. 

His shoulders slumped. “Fine,” he muttered. 

“Alright. Dr. Carter will be in shortly to see you. If you start feeling sleepy, or like you’re gonna throw up, press the red button on your bed, okay?” Bucky slid the curtain open and slipped back out into the hallway. At the nurses’ station, he sat down at an empty computer terminal and began typing up the CAT order. 

Bucky was nearly finished with the endless forms and chart updates and eRecord entries when Dr. Carter poked her lovely brunette head around the corner. “Bucky? Your page said Triage 3 for the concussion?”

His brow furrowed. “Yeah,” and as he stood up he caught a glimpse of Triage 3. And only Triage 3, as it no longer had an occupant. 

“Shit,” Bucky hissed as he picked up the phone to call security. 

***

The second time was Christmas Eve. 

As Bucky wrapped the blood pressure cuff around one skinny arm, his eyes narrowed in recognition. “Steve, right?” 

Guiltily, those narrow shoulders seemed to slump in on themselves. “Uh, yeah. About that night-”

“You gave our security guys a run for their money, you know that? Nobody’s given Morita the slip in three years. We had bets going.” Bucky watched with mild disinterest as the cuff inflated, squeezing the slender bicep until the machine beeped and blooped. 

Steve stayed silent, so Bucky continued. “You think a couple of broken ribs can keep you in one spot long enough for us to patch you up?” 

Sullen, the kid nodded. 

“Good, ‘cause I gotta run over to Peds and see if one of  _ their _ BP cuffs’ll fit you.”

***

“Hypothermia.”

Bucky is so done. So, so done. 

“Hypothermia,” he repeated, slower this time. 

“I know what hypothermia is,” Steve bristled as he pulled the electric blanket tighter around his slight shoulders. 

“Yes. Yes, you do. You know what it is because you went out for a six-hour stroll through Midtown,  _ on the coldest night of the year _ , without a coat on. Without. A. Coat.” Bucky really, really wanted the satisfaction of letting him sit there and try to decide which part of this decision was actually the dumbest. 

“I didn’t start out without a coat,” Steve argued. 

“What, so you were out and about and thought that the negative-twenty-five wind chill was balmy enough for short sleeves? The mayor was crying wolf when he declared a State of Emergency for the whole damn city?” 

“No! I had a coat, I did. I was just goin’ to catch the train and there was this girl, sitting on the sidewalk. All she had was this sweatshirt on, and I knew if she didn’t have a coat there was no way she was gonna make it all the way ‘til morning, so I...I gave her mine. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.” He shot a defiant look in Bucky’s direction. 

Bucky really, actually, tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose, just like his mama had when he was growing up. God rest her soul, though it was more likely she was sitting with Saint Peter and cackling gleefully at her son’s case of What Goes Around Comes Around. 

Unlike his mama, though, he held his tongue against the urge to lecture. 

“If you don’t take care of yourself, though, you won’t be around long enough to help anybody else. You understand? If Steve Rogers froze to death tonight, there won’t be a ‘next time.’”

Well, much, anyway. 

Bucky’s not at all surprised when his chest tightened just the slightest when faced with the idea of this little spitfire using up the last of his apparently nine lives. He sees lots of repeat offenders in the ED, and as a result can usually triage the majority of the waiting room without much more than a first name and a symptom or two. It’s only human that he would develop some investment in their well-being, even if just from a caretaker standpoint. 

As he held the straw to Steve’s purplish lips, though, essentially force-feeding him hot tea, he reassured himself that that’s all it was. 

Concern. 

*** 

Over the eighteen months that followed Steve’s near-death experience with Brooklyn’s Ice Age revival, Bucky treated him for one fractured humerus, two broken fingers, walking pneumonia, and another concussion. Steve also found out the hard way that he was apparently allergic to shellfish. 

Bucky was going to give him that one, especially since the violent reaction he’d had triggered a simultaneous asthma attack and at that point Bucky just pitied the kid. He’d gone up and visited him on the third floor after his shift was over, genuinely sympathetic to what amounted to really, really shitty luck. This time, at least. 

Steve was discharged (by the attending physician - ever since the Prison Break incident Bucky made sure security was always nearby when Steve set foot on hospital property) late on a Tuesday afternoon. Bucky only knew this because as he clocked in for his shift that evening, the ED receptionist handed him a Post-It that had the word “Thanks” and the initials  _ SGR _ scrawled across the small yellow square. He smiled to himself, tracing the letters with the pad of his thumb. 

And then promptly shoved the note in the pocket of his scrubs, because he was _not_ mooning over a patient, he was not. Had he suffered through years of night school and dead-end jobs just to flush it all down the drain? The hospital strictly forbid relationships between staff and patients. _Former_ patients, however, was a little less black and white. 

So if Steve kept his bumbling ass out of Bucky's ED, then maybe...but ironically, so went Bucky's only way of actually contacting him. So it goes. 

The winter that arrives not two weeks later is the coldest that had plagued the city in sixty years, according to the Weather Channel. More than a few times, Bucky’s mind wandered while he rode the train into work, wondering if the shrimpy kid who gave away his coat in a blizzard was taking care of himself. He half-expected to pull aside a curtain and see him curled up on a gurney, shivering, lips as blue as his eyes. 

But it didn’t happen. Sometimes, when Bucky felt restless, unsettled, and couldn’t quite put his finger on why, Steve’s face would flash into his mind and it would all click together. He hoped he was okay. Safe. At least when he landed his stubborn ass into Bucky’s ED, Bucky could fix whatever scrape he’d gotten himself into and send him off knowing, at least for the moment, he was alright. Cared for. 

No news, on the other hand, was not necessarily good news. 

The bitter, wretched cold stretched on for endless months. It was May before the city saw a true spring day, warm and vibrant, and its occupants welcomed it with open arms. 

And then, aliens attacked New York. 

***

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, in all his thirty-three years of life, had never been so goddamn tired. 

He staggered into an on-call room after nearly thirty-six hours on the job, scrubs caked in blood, sweat, vomit, piss, and at least four other bodily fluids he didn’t want to identify. He dropped face-first onto the nearest cot and proceeded to take a voluntary coma for the next thirteen hours. 

Aliens. In New York. If he himself hadn’t been elbow-deep in the purplish goo that the bastards spurted out like pus from a fifteen-year-old’s pimple, he would’ve scoffed at the mere suggestion in that way that only native New Yorkers can. As it was, he just hoped that he wouldn’t have to shave his head to get that crap out of his hair. 

When he awoke from hibernation, parched and crusty in awkward places, he padded into the staff lounge to pound a couple gallons of water. He was prepared to drink straight from the breakroom faucet if he had to. Etiquette went out the window the minute motherfucking  _ aliens _ decided to dive-bomb his motherfucking city. 

Bleary-eyed, Bucky was halfway bent over the sink with his lips pursed when some well-meaning soul jacked up the volume on the TV. The newscaster’s whiny pitch hit Bucky’s frontal lobe like a two-ton drill bit, and just  _ no _ . 

He whirled around, ready to hurl the nearest heavy object directly at the flatscreen’s center mass, when the program cut to a reporter standing amid debris and the decimated remains of Grand Central. LIVE FROM MANHATTAN, the banner across the bottom proclaimed. The flawlessly coiffed blonde held a microphone up to a guy in a tattered red, white and blue costume and clutching some big-ass metal...shield? With...was that a target painted on the front of it? A fucking  _ target _ ? Who does that?

The camera zoomed in on the idiot in the ‘Merica suit, who smiled shyly and told the viewers at home that today was a team effort, that everyone came together when it counted and the NYPD should be proud of their critical incident response units, yadda yadda. 

Bucky scowled. What kind of fucking idiot wears spandex to fight aliens? Aliens who have laser guns? And doesn’t even carry a weapon? Didn’t even bring a stick to a damn gun fight. Hell, he woulda been better off with the stick. 

Who would be honest-to-God stupid enough to-

Oh, no. 

Slowly, Bucky’s eyes drifted back to where the starry-eyed reporter is practically shoving the microphone up the guy’s nose. A nose that Bucky has set before, when it was bruised and swollen and they’d come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t ever heal quite right. Those ocean-blue eyes caught the late-afternoon sun at the perfect angle, and-

Bucky threw his arms in the air and with a heartfelt “Oh hell no” he stormed out of the breakroom.

***

In retrospect, Bucky has very little recollection of exactly how he transported himself from New York-Methodist all the way to Times Square. The trains were all out of service, mostly since half the tunnels had been crushed like anthills under a work boot. Most of the streets were impassable thanks to huge chunks of skyscrapers strewn about like giant Legos, so cabs and Ubers were out. 

Which leaves the only viable explanation to be that Bucky Barnes rage-stomped his way across half of New York City to give Steven Rogers a piece of his goddamn mind. 

By the time he actually got to Midtown in grimy, sweat-drenched scrubs, it was nearly dusk. Pockets of EMT’s and firefighters chipped away tirelessly at the mountains of rubble and debris, most of it still smoking and charred. Weak cries of distress and terror surrounded him. Bucky took a good long look at the ruined city skyline as the full force of reality washed over him. 

Aliens attacked New York. Judging by virtue of the fact that New York was still, y’know, there, it seemed reasonable to conclude they did not succeed. But, as always, there was a cost. And from the looks of things, it had been steep.  

Bucky’s self-righteous fury dissipated the longer he stood, a statue in the midst of what essentially amounted to a warzone. 

“Help! Please, he’s trapped!” 

The hysterical cry sliced through Bucky’s paralysis - he was a nurse, for crying out loud, he shouldn’t be just standing there gawking when he could be making himself useful. Several yards to his left, a young woman was clutching the back bumper of a sedan that had toppled onto its side. A man lay unconscious and bloody, his left leg pinned beneath the wheel well. 

Bucky snapped into action and began to make a beeline for the woman. Maybe if they both pushed hard enough, they could roll the car over-

Which turned out to be entirely unnecessary, because quick as lightning, a figure dashed over, grabbed the back end of the vehicle and lifted it clear off the ground. With one hand. 

Bucky’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Was the FBI or CIA or whoever sure they got all the aliens? Maybe they missed one…? That could happen, right?

He caught a flash of red and blue, otherwise covered head to toe in soot and dust, as the figure used his other hand to pull the injured man to safety. The rear bumper of the Nissan dropped carelessly to the ground like a child’s toy. 

Once Bucky yanked his jaw back up from where it was resting comfortably on the Manhattan crosswalk, he found his vocal cords and managed to croak out, “Steve?”

The guy jumped - like actually, physically jumped - and whirled around in surprise. Incredulously, he blurted out, “Bucky?” Once he spotted him, he trotted over easily, like seconds ago he hadn’t singlehandedly defied the laws of physics and 99% of human biology. 

The breath caught in Bucky’s lungs at the sight of those electric-blue eyes and perfect pink lips. It was him, even if suddenly the schmuck sprouted biceps as big around as Bucky's head and shoulders as wide as a minivan. His heart clenched and he found himself wondering exactly what it was he came here all hot and bothered about. 

Oh, right. 

“I...I came here to yell at you,” he said dumbly. “But. I thought you were smaller.” 

A sheepish grin crept over Steve’s handsome, albeit smudged and blood-spattered, face. A face that Bucky was totally gone over, let’s face it, even if it sat about a foot higher than it used to. “Uh, yeah. Well.”

Bucky snickered. “Nice spandex.” 

“Fuck off.”

“The hell happened to you?”

“I joined the Army.”

Bucky fixed him with his best you-gotta-be-shitting-me scowl. “The fuck?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“‘A long story’? What, you go and volunteer to be in some science experiment? Let Uncle Sam go and juice you up til you’re out here flippin’ over cars and shit, like some super soldier?” Bucky slowly un-balled his hands out of the fists he didn’t realize he was making. 

Steve cringed. 

“Oh my God, Steven, you gotta be five-finger fucking me right now-”

Something landed on Bucky’s mouth, cutting his rant off at the source. It took him longer than he cared to admit to realize that the something was Steve’s lips. Steve was kissing him, with his huge hands clutching fervently at Bucky’s shoulders, holding on like he was drowning. 

Once Bucky got with the program that  _ Steve was kissing him _ , he responded with the utmost of enthusiasm, hands grasping at the nape of Steve’s sweaty neck, running his fingers over the soft skin there. Everything just slid into place, lit up like he’d replaced the one faulty bulb in a string of Christmas lights. Both of them filthy, exhausted, and surrounded by chaos and lots of people they didn’t know. It was fucking perfect. 

When Steve finally pulled back, it was to the tune of several wolf-whistles and catcalls from the peanut gallery of paramedics and firemen who were grinning gleefully. “Let’s hear it for Captain America!” one of them cheered, which garnered even more raucous approval from the crowd. Steve’s cheeks flared bright crimson. 

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Captain  _ what _ ?” 

Hard to imagine it was physiologically possible, but Steve's blush managed to blush even redder. "It's-the news, they made it up. 'Cause of the outfit. It's stupid-"

"I love it," Bucky cut in. "Suits you. And your habit of stickin' your nose into other people's problems and gettin' it broke for your trouble."

The glare that Steve fixed on him could melt steel. As it were, Bucky was practically giddy with the vindication of a good I-told-you-so. 

"So, uh. I guess this-" he gestured to...all of Steve, as there was a lot more to him than there used to be, "means we won't be seeing you down at Methodist anymore." He tried to keep his words light, and not let the disappointment seep in. 

But Steve just smiled, bright as the midday sun, and snagged Bucky's pinky with his own. "You're right. You ain't my nurse anymore, so that means I can finally ask you to dinner, right?"

Bucky answered with a grin just as radiant. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
